Pieces of a Lie

by Rowena Holloway

He re-checked the splintered door. A few well-placed hits with the chisel were all it had taken to release the lock. The backdoor showed no signs of a break-in. Maybe they’d come through the front, snuck through the living room and finding the door to the hallway locked, figured it protected something of value. Perhaps it did. When she’d seen him near it, she’d bristled.

  A quick look around wouldn’t hurt. She didn’t need to know unless he found something, in which case he’d get her permission. Or a warrant. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He pulled a pair of sterile latex gloves from the plastic pouch in his pocket—just because he’d been shunted off to small-town-Failie in South Australia didn’t give him an excuse for sloppy work.

  The dryer ceased. He heard the thud of a wardrobe door, the rasp of a drawer opening and closing. She was quick. He’d never had a girlfriend get ready in under an hour. Whatever he might find beyond this door would have to wait. He wanted an answer about what had happened last night, and he wanted to see her face when she looked at that folder.

  He pushed the gloves into their pouch, crammed it back in his pocket and had barely perched on the end of the sofa when Mina Everton, buttoned into a pinstriped business suit, stepped into the living room. She stopped in surprise. Her softly curling hair was blonder and shorter than it had looked when wet and she’d done a good job of disguising the bruise with makeup. Without a word, though her glare was eloquent, she stepped into flesh-coloured heels, snatched up her keys and iPhone and tossed them into a stylish leather backpack.

  Linc blocked her exit. ‘It’s clear someone broke in, and the bruises on your temple suggest you were attacked. Make a formal complaint. Let us help you.’

  ‘The police? Help me? That’s funny, but I don’t feel like laughing.’

  She glared at him, almost at kissing height now she was in those heels. Yet this conservative businesswoman was a million miles away from the shower-glossed girl who’d answered the door. Her eyes seemed greener. The lashes darker. Her lips the same red as her bag. He preferred them natural, wet by the slow caress of her tongue. Her attempt to eyeball him failed. She lowered her gaze to the vicinity of his mouth and caught her full lower lip between her teeth. The action left him lightheaded and speechless.

  He couldn’t figure it out. He’d met attractive girls before, and it wasn’t like he was looking, not after that mess with Jodie. Besides, he was still enough of a cop to know Mina Everton was hiding something. Someone in this town was helping a gang cherry-pick valuable antiques and he’d be an idiot to pretend her lack of finances and her job skills didn’t make her a prime candidate.

  ‘I have to get to work.’ She tried to push past.

  He stood his ground. ‘Tell me how you got those bruises.’

  ‘Is there some law against bumping my head?’

  ‘Depends on who did the bumping.’

  He’d heard all the excuses during his time on the force, but the way she was with Forbes was all wrong for domestic abuse. Then there was the splintered door in the kitchen, done far too precisely to be the result of a fight. Had she heard the commotion and come to investigate? She didn’t seem like the type to scare easily. Sometimes all that bluster and temper was just bravado, and she did have a fragility that her show of determined independence couldn’t quite mask. Or maybe his perceptions had been skewed by the sight of her in that towel.

  ‘Please, tell me how you got that bruise.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake! I had a nightmare. The dog barked. I whacked my head on the bedside table.’

  He glanced at the bedroom, at the rumpled covers and the delicate glass-topped table beside the bed. There was an indentation in the covers that could have been where a dog had slept. Yet she’d told Forbes someone had been in her house, and he’d never met a dog that didn’t bark when someone pounded on the front door the way Forbes had. He’d seen no bowl for food or water, and no indication that a dog had been anywhere near this house, and having once been trapped in a farmer’s shed for almost a day by a rabid dog he tended to notice if they were around.

  ‘What sort of dog?’ he asked.

  ‘A husky.’

  ‘I don’t see much evidence of one.’

  ‘He’s new, all right? He turned up on my doorstep, hungry and pleading. I couldn’t—’ She straightened her shoulders as if to say she didn’t need to explain herself.

  ‘If he’s a stray, you should call the dogcatcher.’

  She frowned. ‘Is that how you deal with boisterous kids and homeless people too? Lock them up?’

  ‘If they break the law.’

  ‘Like your brother?’

  That hit him like a sniper’s bullet. What else had Forbes told her? How soon before the entire town knew about the shame he’d tried to leave behind in Sydney?

  ‘I suggest you make the time to talk to me, Ms Everton.’ He kept his voice calm. ‘Unless you want me to treat you like a suspect. I’m sure a quiet chat here is more convivial than the station.’

  ‘Station? Yeah, right,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s no place where you’re less welcome. Except maybe the family home.’

  ‘You’d best control your temper.’

  He said it quietly and this time she seemed to get the message.

  ‘I’ve got to meet Gibson,’ she said. ‘I’ll take the folder and look it over with him. He’s far more experienced.’

  The folder only contained copies of the photographs of the stolen antiques. The full report was on his laptop. Strictly speaking, the folder wasn’t evidence, but he wanted to see her expression when she saw what he’d found, and he didn’t want to give her the chance to discuss it with anyone outside of his hearing.

  ‘That won’t be possible. Give me a formal complaint of the break-in and I can get this cleared up. With all the home invasions, I have to wonder why you refuse.’

  ‘I’m either a victim or a suspect, is that it?’ She held his gaze then sighed with impatience and shoved a business card at him. ‘My mobile number. In case you think I’m going to skip town.’

  As she pushed past, she muttered an oath, and he couldn’t resist one last dig.

  ‘Let any old stray sleep in your bed, do you?’

  ‘That’s something you’ll never know, Detective.’

  He surprised them both by laughing.

  Chapter 5

  SLAB CARLSON SPRAWLED on the plush sofa that dominated the mezzanine lounge of his Hindley Street strip club.

  ‘I’m telling you, boss,’ Tiny said. ‘You gotta keep us in the loop. You disappeared without a word. Nugget was shittin’ himself.’

  ‘Shut the eff up. I’m trying to think.’

  Tiny ducked his close-cropped head and murmured an apology.

  His head of security was a six-foot five-inch tattooed bag of Maori muscle, but around him, Tiny still acted like a kid at the principal’s office. Respect. That’s what it came down to.

  ‘Nugget should be shitting himself,’ Slab said. ‘I knocked on his car window and the bastard was out cold. He’s supposed to sell the stuff, not use it.’

  ‘You wanna hear what I got on Drummond, Boss?’

  ‘First, we gotta deal with a certain fist-happy crew member.’ He eyeballed Tiny. ‘You vouched for Lucky, right?’

  Tiny met his gaze without flinching. ‘That old man weren’t Lucky’s doing. He knows how to do things subtle.’

  ‘Beating a pensioner to death ain’t subtle, is it?’ Lucky and his crew were just supposed to rattle the old guy so he’d stop interfering. ‘Now we’ve got a media blitz and a council stooge using it as an election platform.’

  ‘The cops ain’t got a clue, Boss. And the old man ain’t here to say nothing.’

  ‘They were supposed to make it look like druggies looking for some quick cash. They took medals—World War Two fucking medals. And you know what’s worse? Kegs has them out on the table when some chick waltzes in and spots them.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it, Boss.’

  ‘I got it covered. But
it’s sloppy. I don’t like sloppy.’

  He leaned back on the sofa, put his feet on the lacquered coffee table and clipped the end off his Cohiba. Bloody Kegs! If the bloke hadn’t been with him since the beginning, he would have throttled the bastard. Still, he had given him a heads-up about the Everton chick.

  The match flared. He let the bright flame kiss the cigar, puffing until it glowed.

  Attending the community meeting in Failie had paid off. He’d got a good look at Drummond, pumped the overbearing redhead for information, and got an eye-full of that Everton chick. Pretty freakin’ funny that a bloke like Kegs could be scared of a bimbo like that. She was curvy enough in the right places, but skinny. Hot if you liked that sort of thing. He wouldn’t turn her down, but he’d rather go a round or two with the buff babes who filled his gyms and his strip clubs. He’d bet the cost of his newest Zegna that she had something going with the guy who’d chaired the meeting. To think he was a hit with the chicks. What a laugh. For an oldie, he kept himself in pretty good shape and hadn’t settled for cheap suits like the rest of those council dickheads, but with a name like Forbes Monroe he had to be a real tosser. No wonder the locals called him ‘Forbsey’.

  ‘Why’d you go?’ Tiny frowned. ‘To the meeting, I mean.’

  ‘Went to suss the fallout, didn’t I? And what do I find? Some big love-in for the Sydney cop. That council wanker who brought him over reckons the stooge will shut us down,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘like that.’

  Tiny laughed, but this was no chuckle fest. Slab had watched the Sydney bloke move through the crowd trailed by his fan club. Mostly chicks, of course: as soon as he’d stepped up to the microphone, the women had just about dripped. Not that Drummond seemed to notice. He’d been too busy giving Slab the ‘I’ve-got-your-number-mate’ chin lift.

  ‘That Drummond wears custom-made three thousand dollar suits.’ Slab blew a smoke ring toward his red and gold ceiling. ‘Can’t afford that on a detective’s salary.’

  The question was clear in the tilt of Tiny’s head.

  ‘You think I can’t tell the flash stuff when I see it?’ Slab ran his palm over the smooth silk of his tailored shirt, enjoying the contrast with his hard muscle beneath. ‘This is Balenciaga, for fuck’s sake.’

  From the quiet club below came the rattle of glass—booze deliveries. The red-panelled walls were soundproofed, as were his windows and the one-way glass that overlooked the club, but the doors of his private lounge were wide open. He told Tiny to go shut them. It wouldn’t be long before the early staff arrived to set up for the punters and not far behind them would be the new strippers for him to look over. His club needed new talent. All the girls were lookers, but some of the regulars enjoyed the virgin fantasy. None of his girls could work that angle anymore.

  Tiny reclaimed his place on the ottoman and began his report on the Sydney cop’s background: posh family, three generations of lawyers, dad a high court judge.

  ‘Seems he had some trouble following in his pop’s elevated footsteps,’ Tiny said. ‘Studied law at Sydney Uni, but kicked it just before he was due to graduate. Fast-tracked through the Police Academy, flying colours. Did a brief stint as a trainee in the public prosecutor’s office—in New South Wales they’ll fast-track you if you’ve got lawyer training—but he kicked that too. Must’ve pissed his pop right off.’

  ‘Reckon he’s good at that. Pissing people off.’

  He’d told Tiny the meeting was a love-in, but the grumblings from a certain quarter made it plain the local cops were dead against the ring-in.

  ‘Drummond got any other family?’ he asked. ‘Any leverage there?’

  ‘Parents divorced,’ Tiny said. ‘Mother’s deep in some jungle doing good works. His stepmother’s a socialite. One older brother, unmarried. One sister, worked as a social worker, now a farmer’s wife with four kids under ten.’

  ‘Possibilities with the kids?’

  Tiny shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘Seems Drummond ain’t much of a family man.’

  ‘Has to be some reason his department kicked his arse down here. South Australia ain’t exactly the place to make a career, is it?’

  Tiny showed his crooked smile. ‘We do all right.’

  Slab liked the understatement. There was a lot more to Tiny than muscle.

  ‘The department’s closed up tighter than a nun’s cunny,’ Tiny said. ‘No one’s saying much, but it seems Drummond got in a twist and decked his superintendent.’

  ‘That can’t be right.’

  The stooge was too in control. He had the flat eyes of a cop with a big ego and no imagination, the kind who wouldn’t act without a file drawer full of concrete evidence and a fistful of warrants.

  Tiny said, ‘Bloke who saw it reckons the boss told him to man-up and grow a pair. Drummond laid him out with a right hook to the chin.’

  Explosions like that didn’t come out of nowhere. Rage could percolate for years until it ripped out of you, like that creature in Alien. Personal experience told him that.

  ‘Keep digging, Tiny. I need something big.’

  He peeled himself from the couch and moved to the plate glass overlooking the cityscape, a grid as neat and boring as the patchwork quilt on a cat lady’s bed. His accountant had once compared his growing empire to an ancient oak ready to spread its branches across the nation, its roots anchored in South Australia. Slab imagined his empire kept alive by a series of veins pulsating beneath the city, just like they’d throbbed beneath the grey flesh of the rabbit he’d once skinned alive. He fingered the old scar on his neck, a souvenir from the mangy creature. The day his ma patched up his ripped flesh was the closest she ever came to affection.

  Tiny cleared his throat.

  ‘What you waiting for?’ Slab asked. ‘Applause?’

  ‘Seems the brother wasn’t always so upstanding. As a teen he has a few run-ins with the cops. Pop gets him out every time, tries to bury it. Almost did. My guy had to do a lot of expensive sweet-talking to find it.’

  ‘Still don’t feel like clapping.’

  ‘Yeah, well, here’s the interesting bit. The brother gets done for small-time dealing. This time he’s refused bail.’

  ‘For that? What’d he do, flip-off the judge?’

  Tiny pushed out his bottom lip. ‘Rich kid. Pop in the big leagues. Reckon the judge was making a point.’

  That seemed about right. Same thing had happened to him. Once.

  ‘Whatever the reason,’ Tiny said, ‘the kid spent time in lockup.’

  ‘So? Some real gems in there, you know.’

  Tiny chuckled. ‘Well, this stay seemed to scare him straight. He’s a human rights lawyer for Amnesty.’

  Slab moved to the one-way window that overlooked the club. There was a burst of sunlight as the alley door opened and closed. Three girls, all tall and slim, all smoking, looked around the club. The barman hailed them, said something and laughed. One of the girls, leggy and dusky skinned, hunched into her fluffy jacket and turned away.

  He said, ‘Thought this brother angle was supposed to be interesting.’

  ‘The arresting officer was Lincoln Drummond.’

  Slab turned. ‘He sent his brother to lockup?’

  Tiny nodded, his eyebrows raised. ‘Like I said, not much of a family man.’

  So Drummond was by-the-book. Blokes like him didn’t look the other way. Ever. Not for a mountain of money or to save the life of someone they loved. Maybe he should throw a couple of girls the cop’s way. A bit of pillow talk always came in handy. No one too new. Do-gooders like Drummond always thought they could save the fresh ones.

  ‘Er, boss?’ Tiny still sat on the couch. ‘About Nugget?’

  Shit, he’d almost forgotten. He was letting this bloke affect his work, though the cops would never get past his lawyer or the maze of legitimacy that shielded his empire.

  Slab touched the ridges and dips of his scar.

  It had been obvious the Sydney bloke fancied himself. From the cut of hi
s pinstripe to the shine on his designer shoes, everything about him screamed privilege. In Slab’s book, that alone was enough to mark him for a comedown.

  ‘Time to remind Nugget what happens to slackers. Drive him out to the old quarantine station.’ Slab relished the isolated, scrubby spit of land with its mosquito-infested mangroves. He’d taken a few blokes out there himself. Kept him fresh and gave him cred with his crew. ‘If that doesn’t work, you send him into that scrub with a shovel while you walk behind. That’ll straighten the little fucker up.’

  ‘Sure, Boss.’

  ‘Take Lucky with you. A refresher will do him good.’

  He returned his gaze to the girls below. Two had been around a bit—even from this distance their faces were hard—but the wide-eyed one in the jacket and faded mini was barely legal. And obviously hard up. If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d mended her scuffed heels with a bit of electrical tape.

  Young, broke and almost innocent. Perfect.

  Chapter 6

  YOU’RE A SHIT, FORBES MONROE. A real shit. Did you really think turning up at her door would make up for letting her down last night? And just what were you thinking, showing up at the crack of dawn—well, just beyond the crack—with a policeman in tow? Honestly.

  Yet she’d forgiven him. He didn’t deserve a girl—a woman—like Mina Everton.

  He’d tried to get sense out of her last night, but she’d been babbling that crazy stuff about a dog, and Valerie had nagged until he couldn’t think straight. This morning it had all seemed like a bad dream, but just in case, he’d rushed over dragging Drummond with him. Mina had explained it away so easily. Eager to get to this interminable breakfast meeting, and glad to be off the hook for deserting her when she might have needed him most, he’d let her convince him it was nothing.

  But, Jesus, those bruises…

  The biggest fool is the one who can delude himself. His father always said that. Said when it came to fools, Forbes was of Olympic standard.

  ‘What do you reckon, Forbes?’

  His assistant, Baldwin, stared at him with eyebrows raised in expectation.